Still Pitching (34 page)
The demolition crew were fittingly outfitted in Dodger-blue windbreakers; and as the giant white-washed, red-lined “headache ball” crunched into the third base dugout, chunks of concrete and splintered wood flew in all directions. I felt a terrible ache in the pit of my stomach. Then I caught my breath and closed my eyes again. I could see myself sitting in the centerfield bleachers watching Duke Snider camp under a lazy fly ball. The Duke is casually patting the pocket of his mitt, waiting to gather in what Red Barber used to call “an easy can of corn. “In another flashback, I imagined Jackie Robinson crouched between second and first base, hands on knees, waiting for Newk, Ersk, Padres, or “the Preach” to deliver the next pitch
.
I was jolted back to the present when the “headache ball” smashed into the right field scoreboard. The concrete beneath me started to quiver. It felt like a minor earthquake
.
As I walked slowly back to the subway that morning, I made a promise not to attend another Major League ball game
.
After the Coliseum charade
and the demolition of Ebetts, it was easy to stick to my promise. That is, until 1962 when the newly formed Mets moved into the Polo Grounds. I had a brief flirtation with the Mets, but it was mainly because going to the Polo Grounds reminded me of the days when I was still on fire for the game, back when my father used to take us to watch the Giants play here. Once Shea Stadium was built, though, I lost interest again
.
Though I no longer followed Major League baseball, I continued to pitch and play fast pitch softball throughout graduate school and for a good piece of my early teaching career. I finally quit playing at age forty-five
.
Kerchman, too, would figure in my life for a long time after high school. When I was in college I'd sometimes stop by to watch the team scrimmage. Occasionally I'd pitch batting practice. Each time I went back, Kerchman made certain to praise me to his players. Sometimes I wondered if that's why I did go back
.
After college, I moved to Michigan to attend graduate school. I didn't see Coach K again until the 25th-year class reunion. He seemed mellower, more fragile looking
â
even somewhat wistful. Kerchman was a year or two away from retirement, and yet it still amazed me how he could recall so many specific games and situations from the years when I'd played for him
.
He was as complimentary toward me as he'd been ever since my senior year. He was proud, he said, that I'd become a teacher. Because that's the way he thought of himself, as a coach who tried to set an example for his players. We all have our own myths, I guess
.
Ten years ago
, I was rummaging through an old trunk when I found the Kelly award. I cradled the medal in the palm of my hand and read the inscription: “Courage, Character, Loyalty.” Next to the small white box was a copy of a short memoir my brother had written about his own high school baseball days. Mr. K, it seems, had treated Alan the same way as he'd handled me. He made him sit on the bench for three seasons before playing him only sporadically in his senior year. When he finally got his chance, Alan made the most of it. That season, 1963, Far Rockaway won its only city championshipâthanks in good part to my brother's contributions. So at the season ending banquet, Alan was naturally disappointed that he didn't win the Kelly award. It would have been a most fitting ending
.
As I thumbed through the memoir, I stopped when I came across the following passage:
In his locker room speeches, Mr. K talked about this little Jewish relief pitcher whose uniform didn't fit and who didn't have a whole lot of talent. But the boy, he sa id, always seemed to be at his best under extreme pressure. In fact he'd bring this kid into impossible situationsâtie game, bases loaded no outs, that kind of thingâand he'd say to him, “Son, I want you to get me two ground balls and a pop fly. “And that pitcher, my brother Mike, would somehow figure out a way to get the other team to hit two ground balls and a pop fly
.
As I scanned the passage, my first response was: a typical Kerchman ployâthe old rah-rah psych job for the benefit of the rookies. But I was moved by what I'd read. Some part of me understoodâmaybe for the first timeâthat in his own perverse way Mr. K had given me what I had been asking for all along: a nod of acceptance from one kind of Jew to another
.
Acknowledgments
My special gratitude
to Martha Bates, my editor, who knows a lot more about baseball than I do. Her ongoing support and honest, unflinching critiques made this a much better book. A special thanks as well to Maureen Stanton, who read every word of every draft and offered pointed suggestions and guidance each step of the way.
Thanks also to Jack Driscoll whose friendship, encouragement, and critiques were invaluable.
To Edward Chalfant, Don Murray, Steve Tchudi, Jaimy Gordon, David Bradley, and Robert Shekterâmy mentors and teachers.
To Robert Root, Skip Renker, Tim Jeffrey, John Boe, Marc Sheehan, Tom Ray, and Anne Marie Oomenâall of whom read early drafts and offered much needed direction.
To Lev Raphael, Gersh Kaufman, Pauline Adams, Jim Heaven-rich, Dr. Mary Berman, Mimi Schwartz, Lee Hope, Jaimee Wriston Colbert, Marcus Cafagna, Sue Silverman, Lynda Reichert, Phyllis Barber, Philip Cioffari, David Cooper, Michelle Cacho-Negrete, Shirley Eicher, Susanne Rose, Tanya Whiton, Gloria Nixon John, Patti Aiken, Trisha Heller, and Nick Z. Monetâfor their ongoing support and counsel.
To the staff at the MSU Press: Fred Bohm, Julie Loehr, Sylvia Robine, Julie Reaume, and Annette Tannerâfor their enthusiasm, hard work, and dedication to books and literature. My gratitude as well to Kristine Blakeslee for her precise copy edits and knowing advice.
To Philip Spitzer who suggested I write this memoir in the first place.
Finally, to Carole, my partner and kindred spirit who believed in this project and in this writer from the very beginning.
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Author's Note: This memoir is in part a work of imagination and memory. The persons, places, and situations are real, and the dialogue is reconstructed as best I can remember it occurring. The names and other identifying characteristics of some of the people have been changed.
Parts of this memoir have been published as stand-alone pieces. The author would like to thank the editors of the following literary magazine's and anthologies:
The Missouri Review; New Letters; The F1orida Review; Sport Literate; The MacGuffin; The American Examiner; Baseball, I Gave You the Best Years of My Life; Baseball Diamonds: Tales, Traces, Visions, and Voodoo from a Native American Rite; The Fourth Genre: Contemporary Writers of/on Creative Nonfiction
Two stand-alone memoirs,
Trading Off
and
Chin Music
, were cited as Notable Essays in
Best American Essays, 1995
and
1999 respectively
.
Trading Off
was cited as Notable Sports Writing in
Best American Sports Writing, 1995
.
Copyright © 2003 by Michael Steinberg
Cover Design by Awarding Book Covers
Cover photo, Ebbets Field Exterior, used by permission of the National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, N.Y.
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